


Wingmen

by azarias



Category: Dragonriders of Pern - Anne McCaffrey
Genre: 5 Things, Comrades in Arms, Dragons Regularly Make Them Do It, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Ninth Pass (Dragonriders of Pern), Worldbuilding, blue and orange morality, pre Dragonquest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-10-30 19:59:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10883898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azarias/pseuds/azarias
Summary: Five times the green riders of Southern Weyr looked out for each other.





	1. Conspiracy

**Author's Note:**

> Contains a lot of Azarias's Thoughts On Pern, quite a few OCs, and maybe a little bit of plot.

A dozen riders stood on the beach, most bare to the waist in the punishing heat. Their dragons, blue and green and one hulking brown, chased kelp and unlucky fishes in the waves. The wind off the headland was enough to steal their voices to the sea, but it scarcely mattered. They could've had the same discussion in the great hall of Southern Weyr, and Kylara would have paid no more attention, nor T'bor sobered up sufficient to take note.

It was the eighth turn of the Ninth Pass, and Southern Weyr was rotting from the inside.

"If we stand behind another bronze and push," R'mar said, the second time he'd changed his phrasing to try to get support for his idea. "All of us united; none of the patients care enough to give Orth a boost. It matters, who the Weyr supports."

Tz'o gestured angrily. "Push who? Who are we going to wish into being Weyrleader, of all the bronzes who've thrived under T'bor? Name a better man."

A hundred fifty hale men, give or take, made up the regular fighting force of Southern Weyr. They could field half again that number at need, from recuperating patients easing back into the fight and odd wingmen borrowed from other Weyrs as partial payment for the service Southern's hospital provided the dragonriders of Pern. A hundred fifty men were enough to patrol the southern skies in Threadfall and protect the few fragile structures mankind had built in the wilderness, with dragonpairs left over to watch over ships at sea. 

Less than two full flights. A proper Weyr would panic if their numbers dropped that low. The Weyrleader of Southern led more invalids than fighting men, and the Weyrwoman was more nursemaid than dragonlady — if she cared to exert herself. In the Weyr entire, counting walking wounded, there were no more adult bronzeriders than men gathered on this beach today. Any lad with a shiny dragon and half an ounce of ambition went up north first chance he got, looking for his chance to lead a wing where the fight was hottest.

"There's C'rian. E'sten got himself and Zabzeth Threaded again, so C'rian's jumping in on Espleneth every spare minute that he has." What you could say about B'ron, Mermuzith's rider, was that his dragon's hide was brown and he was a romantic. _Two strikes against him_ , A'char thought.

A'char held up his hand. In time, one by one after a little bickering, the riders turned to him. He and his green Trinth were what passed for a leader here, among these men accustomed to being led.

"I'm from Benden," he said simply into the silence. "The rest of you are not. Let me say that the will of the Weyr isn't all it takes to make a bronze catch the Weyrwoman's gold; and good luck us, because if it had been, T'bor would've been Lessa's Weyrleader and we'd all be dead." Some of them centuries earlier than others.

T'bor was a fearless fighting man, but if he ever planned farther ahead than his next meal, no one had ever produced the evidence. And when he was drunk, which was as often as not, he was spiteful and petty. Since he dared not beat his woman, and since Kylara would never respect a man who was afraid of her, he took his frustrations out on the men under his command. No dragonman would stand for a flogging like some errant apprentice — but the Weyrleader decided who went first into danger, and who had the least chance of coming home.

A'char pointed at B'ron, leaving no question whose idea he was refuting first. "C'rian is of Telgar, not Southern Weyr. It would take all the Weyrleaders acting together to declare Southern's next senior flight open, and they wouldn't do it for C'rian. Even if they'd do it, who'd convince him to send Espleneth up to chase?" He shooked his head. "That bronze is loyal."

Loyal to his green weyrmate Zabzeth, just as C'rian was loyal to Zabzeth's rider. It was like a love song, the unlikely enduring love of a bronze rider and a green. Espleneth always caught his Zabzeth and would chase no other female, not even a rising queen. It made A'char sick, and A'char hated both of them more than a little for taking that innocent adolescent fantasy from him.

C'rian loved E'sten. And he threw away his chance to lead a Weyr because of it, and his dragon's need to sire a clutch.

Love indeed. 

A'char said, and hoped he'd fought down his bitterness, "We only have three choices, brothers. We do nothing, and likely T'bor will win again when Prideth rises, and nothing much will change. We could find another bronze to support, but first we have to agree, and hopefully we'll agree on a man who won't say no when the time comes. Then we have to to go back to the Weyr and convince every man, woman, and child to stand behind him, and hope his dragon's clever enough. Or —"

He looked every one of them in the eye. Some looked away. "Or. We decide the next Weyrleader is _not T'bor_ , and we pledge every blue and every brown in the Weyr to obstruct Orth during Prideth's next flight. Beyond that we let the dice fall where they may."

_Bitran._ The thought was in Trinth's voice, but the warm threads of affection stitched through it weren't solely hers. C'daz had said nothing aloud. He rarely did.

_Bitra was loyal for all the Long Interval,_ A'char thought for Trinth to pass back to Laith, and Laith to her rider.

Loyal out of fear of Benden Hold's lord and armsmen, but loyal to the Weyr all the same. Sometimes standing to duty was the best you could ask of people, no matter the motive.

Besides, only A'char's mother was of Bitra. A'char himself had never been there, and his father was the rider who'd seduced her virtue from her. Whatever _virtue_ was, that holders seemed to think it lived in a woman's vagina. A'char knew men and women of virtue, but none of them kept it there.

R'mar looked stricken. "Pledge us all to have the Weyrleader's hand against us, if T'bor wins anyway, or one of his cronies does."

A'char shrugged. "It can be a relief to know exactly where you stand."

" _She_ won't be happy, if the males trip up her mate and his replacement doesn't suit," T'zo added to the protests, though he had his head cocked to the side, thinking. 

No question who _she_ was. The men avoided saying Kylara's name out of habit, superstition. As if to speak of her would summon her. A'char said nothing about her happiness, because he cared nothing about it.

A'char nodded, hearing them, but asked, "If we wanted safety and a long life, brothers, why the _hell_ did we ever walk onto the Hatching Sands?"

When A'char Impressed, the greatest killer of dragonmen had been old age. He'd had no notion that would change. But the rest of the men here were Oldtimers or riders made _this_ Pass, so they chuckled and relaxed, remembering they were brave. A'char gestured at them, raising them up, drawing them toward him. 

"We don't ask for safety, riders. We don't expect a promise we'll live through the next Fall. But we deserve a Weyrleader _worthy_ of our deaths." When he looked around the circle again, every one of them met his eyes. He nodded, resolute. "T'bor's time is over."

Their dragons, little understanding the deal that had been struck here, trumpeted their riders' triumph.


	2. Seduction

Southern's Weyrlingmaster was named H'vis, a sharp-eyed man who rode bronze Cabraeth and drove the weyrlings hard. No complaints on that front, at least not from the adult riders grown past his tender mercies. Weyrlings came to the fighting wings blooded and ready, and no more than the usual died in some stupid accident learning to fly, flame, or go _between_. 

In theory, all the weyrlings were his. In practice, Southern's two breeding queens put three or four clutches on the Sands every turn, and the problem would get worse any day now when Brekke's Wirenth started mating. No one man could care for all those young men, much less get most of them through a turn and a half's intensive training alive. H'vis named his help, a handful of riders for every clutch. And because half the eggs in every clutch hatched green, there was another thing H'vis needed help on. Bronze that he was, he never thought to ask for it. 

That was why A'char was having lunch with M'karst at M'karst's weyr, not the dining hall where H'vis might have noticed. Good at his job or not, H'vis wouldn't care to have his authority undermined. No telling what he'd consider undermining. In a Weyr led by T'bor, every bronzerider was aware of his status and could be vicious holding onto it. 

M'karst's Shibarith was sitting upright outside, trying in some silent way to impress Trinth. She wasn't due to rise again for weeks yet, but the blue was an optimist. A'char thought it was cute, which annoyed Trinth more than Shibarith's posturing did. Anyway, it provided deniability. If anyone did ask, A'char could claim he was just here for sex. 

Wouldn't be a bad way to spend the afternoon, come to think, if M'karst was interested. Once they were done with their task.

His sandwich lay half-eaten beside his hand, fresh cheese and sharp pickles on brown bread. Only the pickles were from the south. All the wheat and dairy got shipped in or came discreetly on dragonback. Something about parasites that got to the dairy cattle if you tried to raise them here, killed them in half a turn. They were lucky whatever it was didn't affect the meat breeds as badly, else hunting for their dragons would be a chore and not a pleasure.

A'char tapped his fingers on the table, counting. "So, ten greens in this clutch, probably no more than a month before the first one wants to mate, and we've got volunteers to make sure all of them are ready for it and experienced enough not to get hurt if all goes well." As long as the wrong men didn't win those maiden flights, and part of A'char's self-imposed duty was to see that they wouldn't. Enough blueriders and browns heeded him that he hadn't failed a flight virgin yet. 

M'karst ticked off items on the list in front of him. The man was a reader. Watching him made A'char glad he'd never bothered to learn, himself. No argument but that M'karst was clever, but take away his slate and chalk and see if he could remember his own name.

"Don't get comfortable," M'karst warned. "There are twelve. I saved the hardest two for last. G'bane, he's Ubiteth's."

"I remember them. I walked them off the Sands after she chose him." Escorting the newly-Impressed from the Hatching Sands to the care of the Weyrlingmaster was the ancient prerogative of greenriders. Whoever had started the tradition, A'char was grateful. Next to his own Impression, the matchless day Trinth chose him above all other boys, there was no moment sweeter than looking into the faces of new-made riders, seeing all the wonder and joy there.

And keeping them from falling on their faces, since they couldn't take their eyes off their dragonlings. To be honest, that was most of the job.

M'karst nodded. "Well, he likes women."

"Women are very likable." 

"Exclusively, he says." 

M'karst's voice was neutral. A'char's response was not. Worry and anger turned his answer sharp. "Damn it, I won't have him waking up after her first flight thinking he's been raped. Shards, he won't be far wrong, if he doesn't have the presence of mind to make a choice beforehand." That kind of thing could turn to poison in a young man's heart. G'bane was a greenrider, and his dragon absolutely _would_ take the choice from him. Sooner every day. 

"You tell him —"

M'karst looked unimpressed. "You think I haven't? You try getting a lad that age to accept he isn't always going to have his own way in bed. He's pretty enough I doubt there's many girls who've turned him down, so he thinks he can just keep on, regardless of everything he's been told and everything he agreed to when he walked onto the Sands. He's holdbred; a turn in the Weyr isn't enough to change him."

If G'bane had been in front of him, A'char would've scruffed him. He gestured angrily. "If I have to, I'll get him drunk tomorrow night and let him hate me after. Better me than his dragon."

How dare the boy even _contemplate_ doing that to his dragon? She wouldn't understand, wouldn't be able to understand. Dragons were what they were, and it was up to their riders to change if change was needed. That arrogant whelp, to act like rubbing himself off against someone he wouldn't look at twice outside a mating flight was too great a sacrifice to make for her. Did G'bane think other greenriders were happy to have any and all men in their beds, without taste or affection or personal discretion? 

So much for that sandwich. So much for afternoon sex. His appetite was gone. "Who else?" he asked. Better to get it over with.

M'karst sat back, arms crossed across his chest. Defensive? "S'koor. Not the same problem, he flirts readily enough. But he's thirteen. Fourteen come spring."

A'char grimaced. "That's ridiculous. None of the wingleaders can possibly want him yet."

At Benden, the Weyrwoman had banned boys younger than sixteen from the Sands. Any boys who Impressed would be men by the time their dragons were grown, and could go straight to the fighting wings. Southern's Weyrwoman refused to follow suit — probably _because_ Lessa had done it first. A'char couldn't fathom the roots of Kylara's hatred for the woman. Lessa'd _made_ her Weyrwoman, when by rights Kylara should still be a junior goldrider at Benden and under Lessa's thumb. 

Of course, it was entirely possible Lessa had given Southern to Kylara because she wanted Kylara gone. She couldn't _actually_ order Kylara to the Red Star, but the southern continent was the next best non-lethal thing. And so here they were, and here Kylara was, and her word was law in Southern Weyr. Damn Lessa anyway. Damn F'lar, while he was at it. 

"Of course not," M'karst agreed. "He'll fly with the queens for a couple of turns. That doesn't change his dragon, though. She'll go proddy before the turn's out, so it's the same problem and being young won't change that. How old were you when you Impressed, again?"

"Thirteen, and that's different. It was the Interval, everyone thought it would last forever, and no one was sure there'd _be_ another clutch for a decade. It's why F'nor's father put him forward, you know. He was only ten. No guarantee any of us would have a second chance." 

"You were still a greenrider, though. Fourteen when Trinth rose? Fifteen?"

A'char sighed and rubbed his face, anger being edged out by sudden weariness. Dragons chose, but the worst man in the Weyr would hesitate, surely, when the rider was all but a child. "Put a word in the ear of a couple of the boys from Ralenth's clutch before last. S'fir, maybe T'lanse. They're good lads, not that many turns older than your S'koor, and T'lanse's blue is already popular with the girls. He caught Trinth a few months ago — nothing to complain about, I'll witness." He shook his head. "Faranth, I don't mind planning a seduction, but I prefer if I'm _not_ old enough to be the target's father."

"That's getting harder every turn, my friend," M'karst said. Despite his dry tone, his smile was relieved. He couldn't be any happier than A'char was about the situation. Less, since he'd been responsible for the boy all these months. 

He scratched a note on his slate, probably a reminder to talk to the blue lads, and that was the list done. M'karst asked, "How's Senchara, anyhow?"

His daughter's name never failed to get a smile from A'char. "Changing like the seasons. I try to see her every few months, and it's like she's grown a different body each time. Giving her foster mother fits — evidently she's started taking a look at the boys herself." 

He knew, in theory, that there was a lot more to raising children than he got to see. He'd been a child himself, once, and his own mothers, the one who birthed him and his fosters, had had endless rules for him to follow, endless lessons for him to learn. Back then it had felt like such a waste of time, and he'd resented it. Why learn things that had nothing to do with dragon riding, when the course of his life was clear? The rarity of dragon eggs had never seemed like a threat to _him_ — that was for other boys. Other boys didn't have _his_ father telling them they'd be a rider. _There's a dragon for you, my lad, if I have to breed the queen myself._

A brown or a bronze would've made the old man prouder, A'char knew, but his father had never said it. That was enough. Trinth was enough.

All those childhood lessons had paid off for A'char, in the end. Patience, observation, industry. None of it was wasted, and even less for Senchara. It'd take a minor miracle for A'char's daughter to be a rider. Gold hatchlings did choose Weyr girls sometimes; the numbers favored hold or hallbred girls, for some reason only dragons knew, but it was only a preference, not a rule. So few golds were ever hatched, though, and there were so many Weyr girls, all of them from rider bloodlines. It would be cruel to get the child's hopes up. That was why Senchara never heard her grandfather's words repeated to her. A'char would be proud beyond words if she became a rider, but he wouldn't torture the girl, let her think that she'd somehow failed when she grew too old and no dragon had looked to her. Her mothers knew better, too.

Not for the first time, he wondered what it was that made women unsuited to fighting dragons. It wasn't that they were weak, physically or mentally. The hardest labor in the Weyr got done by women, and for all the holders blustered and spoke of the fairer sex, he knew very well it was the same in the holds and most of the halls. And if a clod like T'bor could ride a bronze, so could the dullest girl A'char had ever met. But as senseless as it seemed, dragon riding was a thing for men alone, except for the queen dragons. Perhaps it was like childbirth, a segregation decreed by nature itself, with no more rhyme or reason.

Just as well. M'karst's list of virgins was long enough, without adding girls into the mix.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Azarias's Thoughts on Pern:
> 
> Rereading _Dragonquest_ , I was surprised at how forgiving the text is to T'bor. I remembered Southern Weyr being an administrative mess, but he's treated as mostly hapless while still somehow maintaining the loyalty of his men. It's that evil woman Kylara who's to blame for everything that goes wrong.
> 
> Yeah ... no.
> 
> #TeamTheyBothSuck

**Author's Note:**

> I've been opening and closing this file for months and failing to finish it. This is me, lighting a fire under my own ass by breaking my WIP rule.


End file.
